


Do You Wanna Build a Snowman?

by BwayGirl17



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2013-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-05 09:04:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1092093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BwayGirl17/pseuds/BwayGirl17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was inspired by the song of the same name from Disney's Frozen, as a young Sam Winchester waits patiently outside the door for his older brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Do You Wanna Build a Snowman?

**Author's Note:**

> Just a few things: This fic does hint at John abusing the boys when they were little--be warned. Also, this is unbeta'd, so please let me know if there are any typos or anything I need to fix. Thanks!

AGE 6           

 

Sam rolled over on the bed and sighed. The carpet in this motel was the kind that had a billion different colors to match any décor, but it primarily succeeded in looking like vomit. John was gone, as per usual. He said something about potential demon activity as he walked back out the door, after unceremoniously dumping the boys in a room paid for the week. Except this time, something was different.

            Sam had noted the change in his brother over the last few days. He sat straighter, talked less, and kept to himself. Even when he was supposed to be entertaining Sam, Dean hardly even looked at him.

            Even now Dean was avoiding him, Sam realized as he shot a glance towards the bathroom door. Dean had slipped in there just moments after John had left, and Sam hadn’t questioned it. They’d been on the road for nearly four days, so Sam couldn’t blame him. But since John left, Sam watched three and a half episodes of some dumb sitcom, and hadn’t seen hide or hair of his brother.

            Carefully, Sam crawled off the bed. If John had taught him anything, it was to be cautious when investigating something potentially dangerous. Especially after that scare with the Striga just last week. Sam could tell something was different after that day, but he couldn’t figure out what. Most of all, Sam couldn’t figure out why his brother didn’t want to spend time with him anymore.

            He crept towards the bathroom door, listening hard for any kind of noise. He didn’t know what he expected to hear-Dean was by himself, and besides, it was Dean, it’s not like he’d be crying or anything.

            Sam raised his fist and knocked on the door. “Dean?”

            Nothing but silence on the other side.

            Taking a deep breath, Sam tried again. “Dean, are you in there?”

            Still nothing. He decided to switch tactics. “The Simpsons is on. Do you want to come watch it with me?”

            No reaction. “Okay, we don’t have to watch it,” Sam resigned. “I don’t really care. You can pick what we watch, if you want.”

            Sam held his breath, waiting for something-anything-from his brother.

            Finally, the door snapped open. Dean brushed past Sam without so much as a backward glance. “It’s getting late Sammy. You shouldn’t be up so late.”

            Despite his best efforts, Sam felt his lower lip begin to wobble. “But Dean-“

            “I said,” Dean cut him off sharply, “it’s late. Get to bed. I’ll do the salt lines.”

            Sam opened his mouth to protest, but then shut it. He didn’t want to run the risk of Dean seeing him cry. Sam knew that only lead to getting called a baby and harder training sessions in the morning. Instead, he obediently crawled into bed and sniffled into his pillow.

            He didn’t notice the pause as his brother laid the salt across the doors and windows when his recently bandaged arm hit the doorway, or the sniffle as his brother wiped a stray tear from his face.

 

*****

 

 

AGE 15

 

            “For God’s sake Dad, I’ve been taking care of myself my entire life, can’t you just leave me alone?” Sam argued, throwing his duffel on the motel bed. The drive back from Flagstaff had been mostly silent, punctuated by a few biting remarks, but now Sam was done holding his tongue.

            “No, Dean has been taking care of you your entire life,” John corrected him, “and I will leave you alone when you start doing what I tell you and quit giving me lip about it!”

            Sam clenched his fists and tried very hard not to punch his father across the jaw. Over the last few years he’d finally gained a few inches on his old man, and he thoroughly enjoyed using it to his advantage. “I just don’t get why you couldn’t just let me go-“

            “Let you go?” John yelled. “Like hell! Do you really think I’m just going to let you walk out on all of this, on our work, on your _family_ and be alright with that?”

            “Yeah, maybe you should!” Sam yelled back. “We both know I don’t belong here, we both know I’m not who you want me to be! So would it kill you if you just let me leave and live my life?”

            The room went deadly still as John met the eyes of his youngest son. “Like it or not, this is your life. Here. Me, and Dean, and the family business. That is your life.”

            Swallowing the tight knot in his throat, Sam bit back his tears. “No,” he whispered, “it’s not.”

            He watched the rage boil in his father’s eyes,  but as usual, he didn’t back down. Then finally, John turned and walked out the door, slamming it hard for good measure. Sam burned with ugly outrage, knowing everything going wrong in the world was his father’s fault.

            Sam’s crappy education? Courtesy of John Winchester. Non-existent home life? Thanks to John. No chance of any kind of future? Big round of applause for John. Disgusting weather in the middle of Podunk desert nowhere? Somehow, that was John’s fault too.

            Grabbing the ashtray sitting on the dresser (it was nearby and the first thing Sam reached) Sam wound up, and screamed “I HATE YOU!” at the top of his lungs as the glass exploded against the wood of the door.

            He almost didn’t notice the door partly open, or the familiar leather-clad shoulders of his brother sneaking in. At least, not until the ashtray nearly slammed into Dean’s skull.

            Sam’s breath caught. For a moment, he wondered how much of the argument Dean had heard. Then, remembering the volumes he and his father were capable of reaching, he realized Dean most likely heard all of it.

            Even though Sam had only been gone two weeks at the most, he still detected a difference in Dean. It was something about the way he held his body, like he was always at attention. And the way his mouth stayed pursed in a flat line, instead of the arrogant smirk Sam was so used to seeing. The light too, had vanished from his brother’s eyes.

            “Dean, I-“ Sam hesitated. He couldn’t say he didn’t mean the thing he said to their father, because he did.

            The corner of Dean’s mouth twitched, barely the ghost of a smile.

            They stood there and stared at each other, the silence growing almost deafening. Sam wanted to apologize for running away, for worrying Dean, for making him come back to find him, for everything, but the words just wouldn’t come. Dean opened his mouth, and Sam waited for the screaming match, the one filled with _what were you thinking_ and _I thought you were dead_ and _look I know you don’t like it but just suck it up, maybe Dad’ll get off your back._ It was the same speech Dean gave Sam every time he was about to lose his mind at his father, and it worked every time. No matter how big the screw up, Dean could always talk him down.

            But it didn’t come.

            Instead, Dean walked right back out, and into the room next door.

            Sam hadn’t realized he was holding his breath until he heard it come whooshing out of him.  He collapsed onto the bed, feeling nauseous and dizzy and vaguely like crying.

            It wasn’t Dean’s fault-Sam knew that. It was stupid for a fifteen year old to run off with nowhere to go and no money, but it was even stupider to think that Dean wouldn’t come after him.

            Even if his father wouldn’t come looking, Sam always knew Dean would.

            He glanced again towards the wall separating the two rooms. Like all the motels throughout his life, the walls were impossibly thin. He half expected to hear water running, at the very least, but there was nothing.

            Sam tried his best to swallow the tears he felt coming on, but it was useless. Even after living in teenage heaven, complete with soda and junk food and a dog to boot, he always felt that dull ache from not having Dean around. And while his father was a complete bastard, Dean was family. Dean was his everything.

            He waited all night on the other side of the door, waiting for Dean to come back. Eventually there was a cycle-first guilt for running away in the first place, then anger at his father, then anger at himself for losing his temper, then sadness as he thought about not having Dean around anymore, which came back around to guilt.

            The sky eventually darkened, leaving Sam alone in the pitch black of the motel room.  A few times Sam thought about turning the lights on, or mindlessly channel surfing, but that just made him feel worse about himself.

            Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore.

            Standing slowly, he left his room and walked the four steps to the next door. He paused, then knocked a few times. “Dean? You in there?”

            No response. Sam took a deep breath and tried again. “Dean. Come on, man. You’re killing me out here.”

            Still nothing. Sam sat down on the curb just outside and decided to just go with it. “Okay, but if you don’t come out soon I might just start talking to the pictures in the room and whatever. And that would really suck, because then Dad’ll have to come get me from some looney bin.”

            Sam thought he heard a small noise from the other side of the door. He pretended it was Dean rolling his eyes and fake laughing, even though he secretly thought it was funny.

            He felt like screaming about the unfairness of the whole situation. It wasn’t his fault his father had completely screwed the two of them up. He was just a kid. Just a kid looking for some way out of the hellhole called the family business.

            “Seriously man, this bites. Just come out. I think there’s a marathon on of that show with the girl you like. Or something. I don’t know. If you stay in there I might just have to stare at the clock for the rest of eternity while I wait for you.”

            Of course, what he was really saying was _I’m sorry_ , _I didn’t mean to._

            Suddenly, the door came open, and Dean stood there. While guidance counselors and teachers had called Sam’s hero-worship unhealthy, Sam chose to ignore it. Besides, it wasn’t hero worship. It was that feeling you get when you see something familiar after miles and miles of unknown territory, that sense of coming home to someone who cared.

            Sam let himself smile for the first time since John had come to pick him up, not noticing the bloody bandages in the waste basket.

 

*****

AGE 18

 

            The day before Sam left for Stanford, he screamed himself hoarse and stormed out of the house they were renting as his father bellowed that if he left he should never come back.

            Sam never planned on coming back, but he did still need his duffel and bus ticket to get to California.

            That night, he crept back onto the property, and headed back towards the giant tree in the backyard. Shortly after moving in, Dean had realized it was the perfect height and location to be used for sneaking in and out, and then proceeded to do so to meet up with a different girl every night.

            Sam had never snuck out, but his height advantage made climbing the tree easy work. He clambered up towards the second floor, to the bathroom window that always stayed unlocked. He slipped in, silent as a shadow.

His bag was exactly where he left it, at the end of the hall, right where John had caught him and the screaming match began. It was such a strange though, Sam realized, to have his entire life shoved into a duffel, ready to leave at a moment’s notice.

As he walked toward the bag, the floorboards gave a loud creak, and Sam steeled himself for his father’s bellowing voice. But this time, nothing. No screaming, no stomping of heavy boots and cursing his youngest son, which meant John was either passed out or out getting drunk. Sam rolled his eyes. He might have well have come in the front door.

It seemed foolish to go back down the tree, so Sam walked down the hall towards the stairs, the front door, and freedom. But then he noticed the glow of a reading lamp coming from under the door, and he froze.

He couldn’t just _leave._ Not without saying goodbye.

Could he?

Sam swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry, and gently knocked on the door. “Dean?”

The light shifted slightly, but no response.

“Dean, come on, I know you’re in there. Look, I just- I mean, please just let me in? Just open the door?”

Sam realized he suddenly sounded like a five year old who’d just woken up with a nightmare, but he kind of didn’t care. It was Dean. It was his entire life up till now. This was the end of all that. Sam couldn’t just-leave.

Still, he’d heard nothing from inside the bedroom. In one last shot, he tried the handle.

Unlocked.

He let the door swing open, just slightly.

There was his bed, still exactly as he left it. To be honest, Dean probably wouldn’t change anything about it, wouldn’t make it up, wouldn’t change the sheets, although Sam didn’t know if that was from laziness or because he wanted to pretend Sam wasn’t leaving.

Dean was standing at his dresser, shuffling through the drawers. For a second Sam thought about asking him what he was doing, but then thought better of it. Instead, it was Dean who broke the silence.

“Do you remember what we used to say?”

Sam blinked. “What?”

“What we used to say. Back when we were kids, when we’d be on a hunt, and dad would leave us to keep watch or whatever. Do you remember?”

Sam smiled slightly at the memory. “Just you and me.”

Even with Dean facing away from him, Sam could tell he was smiling. “Yeah. Just you and me. So what are we gonna do?”

Sam swallowed, determined that Dean wouldn’t see him cry. Not tonight.

Dean didn’t wait for a response, and turned to him holding an envelope. Awkwardly, he held it out to him.

“Those gigs you’d work, busing tables and whatever. They paid damn near nothing. I figure even with a full ride you’re gonna have to pay for something somewhere.”

Sam looked down to see the envelope being forced into his hands. His fingers were thick and clumsy trying to open it, but he spotted plenty of fives and ones, a few twenties, and a fifty folded in the bottom.

“Dean, no, you can’t let me take this.”

Dean shrugged. “Sure you can. Besides, I didn’t earn much of it. Snuck most of it off Dad when he was so drunk off his ass he couldn’t tell which way was up.”

            Sam smiled slightly, trying to swallow the growing lump in his throat. He always knew he wasn’t cut out for the hunting life, but he didn’t realize leaving was going to suck this much.

            Clapping a hand on his shoulder, Dean smiled tightly. “Good luck out there. I’m sure you’ll be the geekiest dork in your class.”

            Sam pretended not to notice the glassy look in his brother’s eye, and cleared his throat. “Right. Yeah, well uh…”

            Dean coughed slightly and averted his eyes. “Yeah. So… G’bye Sammy.”

 

No one told them how hard it would be to walk away from each other. But somehow, they both managed.

 

*****

 

            It wouldn’t be till years later that Sam would have the guts to ask.

            It came up innocently enough-it was the end of a celebratory night out, the hunt had gone well and everyone was saved. And before he could stop it, Sam heard the question fall out of his mouth.

            At first he thought Dean would punch him. Knock him out, then and there in the middle of some Midwestern bar. But then, that’s not what happened.

            Dean paused, looked away. Took a long pull from his beer. And then proceeded to tell Sam about the nights locked away in the bathroom.

            He told his brother about the bruises. The ones teachers at school would ask about, and the ones Dean got better at hiding with age. The bruises he never let Sam see, because he never wanted Sam to know what his father was capable of.

            He told his brother about the days before they found him in Flagstaff, about the bottle of Jim Bean and the belt buckle and the welts on his back. About the leather cutting into his skin and how he took it without a word because then John would take it out on him, and not his little brother.

            He told his brother about the weeks after he left for Stanford. About the fistfights and cracked ribs, the black eyes and split lips, and about the nurse who slipped him a pamphlet about domestic violence and a helpline number.

            He told him about locking himself in the bathroom, tending to his wounds, and trying not to feel. If he could just conceal it, if John only hurt him and not his brother, then it was worth it.

            And then he promises not to lock Sam out again. 


End file.
